


Final Cry

by Neffectual



Series: one step forward, two steps back [7]
Category: BritWres, Progress Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, Self-Reflection, negativity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 15:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: James Drake isn't sure who he wants to be, and where he wants to be. When he's in front of a crowd, what does he want to elicit, what response does he want? And how does he make that happen? How does he get what he wants?





	Final Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Brother, my brother  
> We can hold it all together  
> Night, all night  
> We're running out forever  
> No, we'll live and die  
> Far, far away from any eyes  
> \- Brother, The Rural Alberta Advantage
> 
> My apologies to James Drake that this doesn't involve him fighting vampires at Sunnydale High. Maybe next time.

There’s something about being in front of a crowd as they all go silent that makes his blood sing, makes something spiral through him that’s more powerful than lust and more dizzying than alcohol, a time in which he draws breath and knows, not thinks, knows, that this is what he’s born to do. This is where he’s supposed to be. But capturing that silence, getting that silence, is harder than it should be. Sometimes he can’t hear himself think over the sounds of the jeering crowds. It’s not even hatred that pours from them, it’s scorn, it’s mockery, and while getting a reaction is what he wants… sometimes he has to wonder if this is what he’s doing it all for. The train noises, the sound of them laughing at his trunks – and more than that.

Wondering if he’s a source of mockery simply because of who he walks out to the ring with has crossed his mind once or twice. Maybe a few times. Maybe a number of times. Maybe all the time, if he’s honest with himself, something no one ever really values in a wrestler. If you can believe your own lies, believe your own promos, and stalk out there like you’re exactly who they expect, then you’re onto a winner, even if you’re losing. If you’re honest with yourself about your career progression, about your chances of making it big, you’ll never make it. Success in any field, he believes, is about lying to yourself, faking it until you’re making it, but he wonders when he’ll feel like he’s made it. When the WWE retaining contract will stop feeling like something he has to live up to and start feeling like something he’s earned.  
  
But partially, he has to admit that Gibson is the reason why he gets the reaction he does, why he’s laughed out of the room by crowds too breathless from booing to even remember to shout abuse at him. There are days when he gets out the back and wonders if he’s an afterthought to what Gibson has, but even more than that, he wonders if both of them are being treated like a joke, at the close of it. If they’re being laughed at and jeered at so loudly that no one’s ever really watching what they can do. It hurts to admit that there have been times when he’s thought of taking Gibson down in order to be taken seriously, but the thought leaves him cold, like he’s been immersed in ice water. His brother-in-arms, to do that would be… unthinkable. And yet, he thinks it.  
  
It wounds him to be thought of as a joke figure, though, that no one really sees how good he is, what he’s capable of, because they’re too busy laughing at him. It’s the paradox of conversation – is someone listening to you, or are they just working out what they’re going to say next? Are the audience really watching him, or are they just waiting for the next moment in which their hilarious chant can be heard? He doesn’t know, but sometimes, when the reaction isn’t quite what he wants, when he does something impressive and hears the jeers instead of the applause, he has to take a moment just to think about whether he deserved applause, whether he pulled that off, or whether mockery is all he deserves.  
  
In the dark of the night, wondering who James Drake is, what he’s aiming for, and what he wants from an audience keeps him awake, keeps him staring into the darkness hours after he should be asleep, and it’s easier to get up and hit the gym at midnight, one, two in the morning, rather than lie there and wonder about his future. It’s easier to pretend his pre-workout is keeping him up, rather than repetitive thoughts about whether he’s working hard enough to deserve a better reaction, and the more hours he puts in at the gym, the more he can convince himself that he does deserve what he has, that he’s worked hard for what he has, and he’s worth the results.  
  
Gibson’s never been anything but loyal, never turned on him, never even suggested that he might be thinking of letting him down. He’s always there with a steady hand when his own grip falters on the bar, always a shoulder to lean on when his foot slips on the rope, always slinging Drake’s arm around his shoulder to help him limp away from another embarrassing loss, and never suggesting it might be better if they didn’t work together anymore. He never says anything in blame, just “we’ll get them next time” and “we know we’re better than them”; platitudes to keep a temper simmering, rather than boiling over Drake in rage at himself for letting them down once again.  
  
When it finally happens, and he’s holding one of the Progress tag titles, holding it in his actual hand, finally certain it isn’t a dream and it isn’t a mistake, that no one’s going to tell him that there’s been an error and snatch it from his grasp, he can’t believe it. There’s a space between him and the boo of the crowd, a dark roaring vacuum keeping their noise at bay, and when he makes eye contact with Zack, there’s a second where he wonders if his eyes betray just how much he never thought this would happen. Just how much he thought they were destined to failure, no matter how good it feels to stand beside his closest friend like this, finally raising the title high. He looks down at the broken Lykos, being helped away by the medics, and smiles.  
  
“Finally, yeah?” Zack says to him, after the hug out the back.  
“Yeah,” he says, quietly, nodding. “We’ll get what we deserve.”


End file.
